Remember When Is the Lowest Form of Conversation

Alexandra Naughton

remember when is the lowest form of conversation

but fantasizing about a new act one is my favorite thing to think about

remember when we spent the day at governors island? we took the ferry and ate a sheave of wheat baguette rows away from a trio of evangelizing christians. when they looked at me and asked if i wanted to go to church, i lifted the crucifix around my neck and said i’m catholic.

later in your car, i wanted to play that song again, the one we serenaded each other with the night before, but my ipod was wet and wouldn’t work.

will you stay near me now, don’t leave this town, until we’ve figured out.

the water bottle in my bag must have opened when you were taking my picture, posing reclined against the oversized windows, solid and wind battered from erosion, but still holding up better than the skin around my mouth or my patience for you.

you never sent me that photo.

remember when we were taking the scenic route, driving along the coastline, killing time before dinner. my mascara was running, sooty little streams, and i couldn’t hold it back. you always thought i was a child, more childish than you.

four years older you always infantilized me. even peeling off a shred of glee when you told me your ex had seen me and texted you asking how old is she? i didn’t see her. i was just walking off a hangover in the shopping district. she was on a smoke break from her job at the sushi restaurant and knew what i looked like. you knew i knew what she looked like too.

between the two of us, can you understand why i act so stupid when i make up excuses to be around you? french tipped over in anticipation, pink and white elation pointing out the obvious even when you have the upper hand?

remember when you drove all night to see me, only stopping to pee and buy big gulp sized diet cokes. it was the beginning of summer and i thought we had a second chance. that we had both grown up since the last time when you dragged my skinless body down the block from the bar and we toppled onto grass to look at the sky. it scared me to see all those stars. i thought they would fall down on top of me, there were so many. country stars burn pantless, unashamed, ready to swallow any gazers whole.

city skies are smaller and dimmer. even though you burned all that gas, it didn’t take long to want my bed to myself again.